“I think this is the most I’ve ever seen your eyes look like that,” he says quietly, stroking the cloth across my cheek.
I resist the urge to cover my eyes with my hands. “Like what?”
“Like joy.” His features are pensive. “I’m sorry about how I acted when you visited my apartment. It’s no excuse, but I’ve been…well, it’s…I’ve never—I mean, I’vepretendedto be, but wasn’t really, and now I don’t even know how to…” He gives a weak half laugh, looking to the ceiling for answers. “Iverymuch don’t know how to.”
He’s lost me. “Don’t know how to what?”
“Mm” is all he replies, his voice deep. I can feel that my face is clean, but he doesn’t step away, doesn’t drop his hand. When I continue to stare questioningly at him, he winks. “We need to raid the cupboards more often, you and I.”
“Oh. My. God.”
We spring apart at the sound of Luna’s voice, as if we’ve been caught misbehaving—and then I quickly remember thestate of the kitchen. My sister’s enormous blue eyes pan from the purple gloop on the walls to Romina’s books on the table, our paranimal scribblings, a hastily half-packed suitcase. One of us emptied a canister of peanuts in there. “What the hell is going on?”
Twenty-Seven
Feed black chokeberries to the household gods in your fireplace every Mabon or they will become offended and leave your home cold in the winter.
Spells, Charms, and Rituals,
Tempest Family Grimoire
Morgan and Ilook to one another, helpless. “Uhh.”
Luna holds up her phone toward me. “Brent texted. He said you didn’t show up to the date.”
My stomach bursts into a swarm. Not again! “Oh no. I’m so sorry, I got distracted and forgot.”
“Date?” Morgan repeats with a frown. “Who’s Brent? Is that Bob’s new name? I thought we were through with him.”
“Meanwhile, you’ve been creating a mess for me to clean up, as if I don’t have enough going on what with running our business and raising a human,” Luna goes on hysterically, inspecting the Crock-Pot and messy cupboard. “You heathens. Do you have any idea how long it took me to brew these potions?”
“Sorry,” we mutter, shamefaced.
Morgan falls upon his sword. “It was my fault. I got carried away.”
I grab a sponge and start scrubbing up. “No, no, it was my fault.”
“Never Ever!” Luna exclaims shrilly. “Which one of you touched this?” She brandishes the bottle of gleaming temptation, and a strip of lamplight scythes across the glass like a wicked smile. “You idiots! It explicitly says,never ever! Now I’ve got to find a stabilizer to dim it.” She ransacks the cupboards, cursing us for rearranging its contents.
“Sorry,” I bleat again. “You have every right to be mad. Don’t worry, we’ll clean it all up.”
“Damned right, you will. Actually, no, don’t touch anything else.” She runs her hands through her short curls; there must be bits of candle wax in there, because her fingers get stuck. “You’re both grounded.”
Morgan steps slightly behind me before asking, “Why do you have a potion calledNever Everif it’s never meant to be used?”
Luna’s shaking her head as she splashes bits of this and that into the Crock-Pot; the purple goo coalesces into a hard rock that, from a certain angle, is sheened green. “I would have expected this from Morgan,” she grumbles. “But you, Zelda? You’re supposed to have a brain.”
“I have a brain!” Morgan insists. “Not my fault it’s upstaged by the beautiful head that surrounds it.”
Luna adds a final dusting of cinnamon, her face mournful. “Poor Brent. He waited over an hour.”
Morgan’s eyes narrow, watching me sidelong. “Yeah. Who’s this Brent fellow?”
Nobody answers him. Luna seizes my sponge. “Not that sponge, I just opened this one from a new package. Grab an old cleaning rag—no, not a yellow one.” I’m digging throughwashcloths in a drawer. “The yellow ones are for food messes. This is a magic mess. You need a black rag. No, notthatblack rag, that one’s for special occasions—”
I nearly throw my back out when I jerk upright, arms gesturing wide in frustration. “Which one do I use, then?”
“I’ll do it,” she snaps. “Jesus, Zelda. You always do this.”
